Don't let yourself be seen with the cops. The words rang in his ears as he walked down the street. It was dusk and the air was thick with humidity, adding to his sense of apprehension. He felt like every single civilians' eyes were on him, but of course, that was insane. He didn't attract any attention; he was just panicked.

The needs of the family come before the needs of yourself. He repeated this over and over in his head as he practically flew down the dimly lit alleys and backstreets into a more run-down part of the town. He hadn't been told any details; he only knew that he was supposed to show up at the old auto factory in the south side of town ASAP.

Don't go to bars or clubs other than your own. He was trying. Every bit of him was at attention and his senses were threatening to overwhelm him. The blackness of the night was consuming his vision and he could feel his breath pounding in his lungs and hear his blood rushing in his ears. What he could really use right now was a good drink but it seemed that he really had somewhere to be.

You must tell the truth when you are asked to supply information. In this case, the lack of information he had received was what was causing him so much anxiety. He knew that his brother had been sent out to shut down a smaller organization which was channeling some of their gambling profits away from the bigger picture a few days ago. He couldn't help but worry about his little brother when he went out to do something dangerous; he could be a bit clumsy and naïve at times and of course there was that big brother instinct that told him to protect his younger sibling.

Finally, he came upon the lone, weathered, beaten, generally falling-apart factory. It was completely desolate except for the single man standing outside the doors, barely visible under the cover of night. He narrowed his eyes and subtly felt to make sure his gun was still there, although he did not slow in his approach.

There must always be a third person in a meeting with an outsider. No exceptions. His heart was beating in his throat by the time he reached the man. At first he was on guard, but he recognized the outfit and general demeanor of the man as one of his own. The man locked gazes with him, face showing no emotion whatsoever as he looked up at him from the shadow casted by his fedora.

"Pasta di pomodora," he said confidently. The code was really just a formality; everyone affiliated with the organization knew him. It's better to be safe than sorry, but he personally hated the code; it was childish. The man nodded and moved away from the rusting doors, letting him through.

The ceiling was high and it was dark, the smell of rust and decades-old machine grease lingering. He wasn't quite sure where he was supposed to go until he saw another man posted in the doorway to a smaller room away from the main garage. The room's light was on. His nerves were beginning to calm down as he approached. If something bad had happened to his brother, someone would have come to meet him by now. He nodded to the man as he passed, who nodded in return.

He didn't even have the chance to survey the room before he was nearly tackled to the dusty ground. "Fratello!" He choked and shoved his younger brother off of him. He was relieved to see that he was alright. Surely nothing could have gone wrong, but there was no way to stop him from worrying. His brother's proud smile was reflected in his bright amber eyes, leading his gaze to the other occupants of the room.

Their Grandpa was standing off to the side, arms crossed, an easy smirk adorning his visage. "Hello, Lovino. Glad to see you could make it," he greeted, his deep voice rumbling around in his chest.

Lovino raised a hand in greeting before turning to the figure in the center of the room, bound and gagged. "This is our guy?" Lovino asked, voice clear and devoid of emotion.

Feliciano hummed. "It was almost too easy. He was so drunk he barely even noticed us until we had the entire casino surrounded," he chirped.

"There weren't many causalities, either. Most of the townspeople got out, but a few were caught in the crossfire. We didn't lose anybody but they lost about ten," their Grandpa informed. "Feliciano knocked the guy out himself."

"Nice job," Lovino praised, although he wasn't really listening. He was too busy staring down the idiot who thought he could get around the Vargas family. He smirked a little to himself. "What are we going to do with him?"

Roma stepped up behind Lovino and rested a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling his grandson's gun out of the waistband of his pants. "You know."

Lovino took the gun and gazed at it for a moment. He heard the miserable traitor whimper in something that might have been a plea for mercy. A slight glimmer of amusement shone in Lovino's eyes. As if he was getting out of this predicament. "It's really unfortunate," he said quietly, addressing the unground casino proprietor. "I've seen your wife. She's pretty." He made sure the gun was loaded and clicked off the safety. "How sad that she chose to spend her life with you." He smiled as he held the gun level to the man's head. "I doubt you'll be missed."

There was a loud bang and a moment of nothingness as the sound echoed off the metallic walls of the factory before there was soft thud as the man's body fell to the floor. Slowly, blood poured out from his lifeless corpse, staining the dusty grey-brown floor a rich, life-blood red. Lovino scowled. "Fucker should've known better."

Roma laughed heartily. "He should've, but that's a thing of the past." His eyes darted to the body in the center of the room. "You're right; his wife is pretty and he won't be missed."